


Hold Me 'Till Winter

by SingARoundelay



Series: Thrice Upon a December [3]
Category: Falsettos - Lapine/Finn
Genre: (which is why this was not posted on the actual holidays), Chrismukkah, Christmas, Hanukkah, M/M, Soft marvin, both during canon and post-canon, but I'm really damn proud of it, marvin and Jason bonding, this is definitely not a happy fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-24 09:51:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13211250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SingARoundelay/pseuds/SingARoundelay
Summary: December, 1981: Whizzer Brown is well enough to have one last Chrismukkah at home with his family.December, 1982: Marvin has to learn how to go on without Whizzer... and learns some traditions are best kept, no matter how painful.--“What the fuck isthat?”It's the strangest sense of deja vu imaginable. Only this time, walking into his apartment, it’s his son taking care of the trappings of Christmas and turning the whole place into a goddamned winter wonderland, not Whizzer. Marvin’s heart and stomach do their typical tango in his torso—funny how December is the one month that makes Marvin miss his lover most of all.





	Hold Me 'Till Winter

**Author's Note:**

> As always, an enormous thank you to short--insomniacs for being my beta reader on the Jewish half of things. And, as such, this fic is dedicated to her!

**_December 24, 1982_ **

“What the fuck is _that_?”

It's the strangest sense of deja vu imaginable. Only this time, walking into his apartment, it’s his son taking care of the trappings of Christmas and turning the whole place into a goddamned winter wonderland, not Whizzer. Marvin’s heart and stomach do their typical tango in his torso—funny how December is the one month that makes Marvin miss his lover most of all.

It doesn’t help that the 28th will be the one year anniversary of his death.

“Hey, Dad,” Jason says, words muffled around the couple of ornaments hanging from his mouth while he pulls a chair over to reach the top of the tree.

Marvin shuts the door behind himself, closes his eyes, and tries to regain his composure. 

“Jason, what are you doing here?” He asks once he’s sure his voice won’t crack. “It’s Christmas Eve and it’s a school night. Does your mom know you’re here?” Because the absolute last thing he needs is a panicked call from Trina with the NYPD showing up on his doorstep minutes later to arrest him for kidnapping.

Not that Trina’s ever overreacted over anything. Never. 

“Mom was the one who suggested it. She thought you could use the company...?” Jason trails off, hanging the last ornament near the Star of David tree topper. 

He still remembers when Whizzer bought the damn thing last year to tie the whole “Chrismukkah” look together. Even with one foot in the grave, Whizzer managed to keep his sense of humor to the very last.

Marvin only hopes he’ll be as brave when his time comes.

“Let me guess, Trina thinks I was planning on getting shitfaced and hopes I’ll ignore the bottle if you’re around?”

Jason frowns. “Uh… I guess? She didn’t say so in so many words.”

Marvin’s hand tightens around his briefcase handle. Inside there’s an unopened bottle of scotch that had his name on it. He has every intention of diving into the bottle and waking up three days later—preferably not in a puddle of his own vomit. He’s already ignored the six messages (and counting, he’s sure) left for him at the office, courtesy of Cordelia. After the first two pleading messages, begging him to come up to theirs for the night and celebrate with them, he let them pile up on his desk, unread. But as much as he loves the girls, he has no desire to act the proverbial third wheel to their happiness.

He doesn’t want to hang around a loving couple where they partake in similar Chrismukkah traditions—ones that predate his time with Whizzer—that began when Charlotte fell in love with her shiksa goddess. Nice to know he isn’t the _only_ Jew roped into setting up mangers and singing about a little town in Bethlehem and little drummer boys and so many damn angels.

At least he can get behind the more secular songs—though he could go an eternity without hearing the date rape song ever again. Can’t that one go out of fashion already?

No, he and his good buddy Jimmy Beam have a date tonight and he needs to get his son out of the damn apartment so he can grieve in peace.

“It was thoughtful of you to come, sweetheart, but I’m going to be just fine. I promise,” Marvin finally says. “You don’t have to stay.”

Christ, he hates lying to Jason. He hasn’t been fine in a year. Hasn’t been fine since Whizzer first got sick, really. Isn’t fine knowing the same disease that killed Whizzer is slowly rotting him from the inside out. How many more holidays will he have with his son?

Maybe he shouldn’t kick him out. Just in case.

“But Mom said that Aunt Delia told _her_ that you weren’t coming up to theirs tonight so _she_ said I should come over and cheer you up.” He looks around at the Christmas decorations he’s hung up as if realizing for the first time this might not have been the best thing for his Dad.

Marvin’s heart cracks, seeing the crestfallen expression on Jason’s face. He drops his briefcase by the couch and wraps his son up in a tight hug, kissing the top of his head. No, this isn’t at all what he would have wanted to see walking in the door, but it warms his soul that his Jewish son wants to keep the quasi-Catholic traditions his deceased lover inserted into their little family.

If Marvin had his way, the decorations would have stayed in the back of his closet until the end of time. Because somehow, some way, Whizzer would know if he disobeyed the order scrawled on the side of the box: _**Whizzer’s Christmas Decorations — I’ll fucking kill you if you throw anything out, you jackass.**_ Then again, summoning Whizzer’s ghost to haunt him for transgressions toward Christmas decorations might be the easiest way to see him again. 

It’s half-tempting.

He releases Jason, tugging on his sleeve to make sure his son doesn’t spot the small, purple lesion on his forearm. 

“Thank you,” he says, readjusting one of the popcorn garlands to rest on a higher branch. “You’re a good kid, and I’m proud you’re my son.”

“I love you, Dad.”

Marvin smiles, amazed at how easy the words are to return. “I love you, too.”

***

**  
_December 20, 1981_  
**

“Are you _sure_ you’re up for this?” 

Charlotte has her arms crossed in front of her chest, watching eagle-eyed as Marvin helps Whizzer from the bed. It’s a good day, Marvin realizes, noting that Whizzer isn’t leaning heavily on him for the first time in several months. Maybe he’s getting better—or maybe he’s just happy to get out of the damn hospital.

Maybe it’s a little of Column A and Column B.

“I’m… I’m positive,” Whizzer says, stuttering ever so slightly.

Or it’s all Column B.

“See?” Marvin says, arm looped around Whizzer’s waist. “Everything is fine.”

“Everything's _not_ fine, and you both know it.” Charlotte taps her foot on the floor. She looks more like an angry teacher than a doctor, especially when she turns her wrath to Marvin. “And you should be ashamed of yourself! Convincing him he can go home! What if—”

Whizzer coughs, interrupting her, then straightens up as best as he can—but even so, he and Marvin are about the same height. Gone is Marvin’s six-foot-four Adonis, and in his place is a hunched man. “He did nothing of the sort, Doc. This is all me. Besides, Chanukkah starts tonight and I’d rather not have to celebrate every holiday—High Holiday or not—in the hospital.”

There’s an unspoken _I want to die at home_ hanging in the air, but Marvin refuses to acknowledge it. So the three of them don’t. They’ve all gotten good at pretending the inevitable doesn’t exist.

Charlotte gives the two men the proverbial stink eye, glancing back and forth between them, as if waiting for one to give in to sounder judgment. But, in the end, she throws her arms up in the air, resigned.

“Besides,” Marvin says, hoping to add the final nail in the coffin, “if anything _should_ happen, you’re right upstairs. If he goes outside, we have the wheelchair to use. The building has an elevator. I cleaned out the apartment so he can easily get around. _Nothing_ is going to go wrong. It’s a night at worse and a week at best.”

She looks like she doesn’t believe him, but it’s two against one and Charlotte can admit, however unhappily, when she’s outnumbered. All three of them know Whizzer is living on borrowed time. If this is how he chooses to live his last days, then so be it.

It takes both of them to get Whizzer into the back of a taxi, his wheelchair stowed in the trunk of the checker cab. Once they get to the apartment, Marvin will be on his own.

The cab crawls through the streets of the city and Marvin feels Whizzer take his hand. His fingers are cold and Marvin tells himself it’s because of the chill in the air. Not yet another side-effect of whatever this illness is.

“Thank you,” Whizzer says and Marvin is still not used to his gravelly voice. Gone is his clear tenor tone and in its place is the sound of a man ten times his years.

“Anything for you,” Marvin replies, kissing their intertwined fingers. 

It’s harder getting him out of the cab and into the wheelchair on the other end, but the driver takes pity on them and helps. Five years ago, the guy would have been just Whizzer’s type and Marvin feels that too-familiar wave of jealousy wash over him. In another time, he’d have watched Whizzer surreptitiously slip the guy his number. But now, Whizzer has his head resting against Marvin’s hand, eyes only for him. Marvin almost wishes Whizzer would check the guy out or make some sort of a crass remark. 

Anything for some semblance of normalcy.

“You should have found out if he’s a sailor,” Whizzer says as the cab pulls away. “He has the body of one.”

Marvin laughs in spite of himself. Ask and ye shall receive. “Come on, you old, horny man. Let’s get you inside.”

***

_  
**December 24, 1982**  
_

“Dad. Are you _actually_ making dinner?”

“ _Yes_ , I am, so you can drop the attitude.” Marvin brandishes a wooden spoon like a sword. “Contrary to popular belief, I haven’t been living out of takeaway cartons.”

“I find _that_ hard to believe,” Jason says, wrinkling his nose. He comes up beside Marvin, glancing into the pot. “Wait. This smells _good_.” He looks up at has dad, hands on his hips in a perfect imitation of Trina. “This has to be from Barbetta. You _burn water_ , Dad.”

Marvin gives the sauce one last stir, tapping the spoon on the side of the pot. “This is all me, kid. Whizzer—” His voice cracks on the name and it takes a moment for him to compose himself again. “He taught me a few things. Before…”

Emotion gets the better of him, damnit, and soon he’s standing in the kitchen with his thirteen-year-old son holding him close while he sobs and drips pasta sauce on the floor. This— _this_ —is why he wanted to be alone today. Because he knew he’d have a breakdown or six and wanted to have them in private. Not being consoled by his son.

Eventually he regains control and straightens, wiping up a bit of sauce from Jason’s shoulder with an apologetic hum.

“Sorry about that,” Marvin says, wiping a stray tear from Jason’s cheek. He doesn’t know if it’s his son’s or his own. It’s hard, in his own grief, remembering sometimes that Whizzer was like a third dad to Jason.

“It’s okay, Dad.” Jason grabs a towel and wipes up the last of the sauce from the tile before it can stain. “Why don’t you let me finish making dinner? I can do it.”

Marvin doesn’t have it in him to argue. He kisses the top of Jason’s head, ruffles his hair, then pads off to the bathroom to get himself cleaned up. A bit of water splashed on his face helps to erase the red that rims his eyes. He’s tried so hard to hold it together for Jason’s sake, but Christmas Eve is getting the best of him like he knew it would. But all the same, even Marvin has to admit that having Jason here and actually allowing himself to openly grieve in front of his son is probably healthier than crawling into the bottom of a bottle.

All the same, he’s still going to have _words_ with Trina later.

Composed—mostly—he exits the bathroom to the overwhelming scent of garlic, butter, and tomatoes. He hovers in the doorway for a bit, watching Jason bustle around the kitchen. Marvin can’t help but marvel at how well Jason has turned out in spite of the shitty deck he was dealt. He’s weathered more than most adults ever will in his short life with such grace. Marvin couldn’t be prouder of him.

Together, father and son finish the meal and get everything set on the table. Marvin ignores the bottle of bourbon calling his name inside the briefcase and instead opens a bottle of wine. He pours a generous glass for himself and about an inch in the other for Jason. He drank more on holidays when he was his age. 

They’re both quiet as they tuck into dinner and Marvin tries to ignore the proverbial elephant in the room. Because, as the tradition states, they are supposed to go uptown once they’ve finished. But Marvin is running short on good will toward men and holiday spirit this year—though he never did have an excess of it to begin with. The biggest hole in their tradition: no Whizzer to take Jason through St Patrick’s. 

No Whizzer to sing in his ear. 

_Don’t ask. Just want to stay in tonight. Please, kid. Please._

“Dad?”

_Fuck fuck fuck. When did you start learning to read minds?_

Marvin takes a fortifying sip of wine, pretending if he doesn’t answer Jason didn’t speak.

“...Dad?”

_Nope._

“Dad, I know you can hear me.”

Another sip of wine. Refill the glass. Breathe. Breathe. Don’t panic. Keep it together. 

“Yes, Jason?”

Now with his dad’s attention on him, Jason squirms in his seat. “Well. I know everything is different this year and all, but. Can we? Go up and see the tree?” He pokes at a meatball, rolling it around on his plate. “We don’t have to stay long. But. But I think he’d want us to go.”

And Marvin’s heart breaks all over again because he knows Jason is right. Whizzer started this damn tradition and then fucking left him to fend for himself. Just like he demanded Christmas decorations never be thrown out—or face certain death—but so, too, would Whizzer want them to carry this on. The two Jews celebrating a holiday that isn’t theirs.

Whizzer must be having one hell of a laugh at Marvin’s expense wherever he is. 

Maybe this is one way to keep Whizzer’s memory that much clearer in his head. Already some things are starting to grey around the edges. At least he can still remember his voice. The curve of his smile. The sparkle in his eye…

“So… can we?” Jason asks, reaching across the table to rest his hand over his father’s. 

“Of course,” Marvin says, and he can almost feel a pair of phantom lips press against his cheek in approval.

***

**  
_December 23, 1981_  
**

“You know, we really should have waited until Jason could help us.”

“Why? You’re doing an excellent job,” Whizzer says from his throne-like position on the couch.

“You mean you’re thoroughly enjoying staring at my ass as I bend and crawl under this fucking thing,” Marvin huffs, but there’s no malice in his tone for once. It feels nice, being able to banter like this without fear of reprisal. Without expecting hurt feelings to manifest as they start yet another battle in the never-ending war that no one will ever win.

“That’s exactly what I mean. I may be sick, but I’m still kickin’, and _you_ still have a fabulous ass.”

A slight blush tinges Marvin’s cheeks and he’s glad Whizzer can’t see his face. With a few more grunts and groans, he manages to get the tree centered in the stand.

“I swear to god,” Marvin says, crawling out from under the tree, “if you make one crack that the tree shouldn’t be the only straight thing in this apartment, I’m wheeling you downstairs and leaving you outside in the cold.”

Whizzer puts a hand to his chest, pretending to look the picture of pure innocence. Instead it comes off as devilish. Thus, Marvin, with his hands cupping Whizzer’s face, kisses him before he can speak any sort of ridiculous pun. Whizzer’s arms encircle Marvin, resting on the small of his back. For a moment, if he closes his eyes, Marvin can almost pretend Whizzer isn’t dying. 

Almost.

But Whizzer doesn’t deepen the kiss; doesn’t slide his hands down Marvin’s jeans to grab his ass. One moment he’s the Whizzer Marvin ruined his marriage for, the next he’s a sick man barely clinging to life. But it’s still a kiss and Marvin treats each one like the precious commodity it is.

“I love you,” Whizzer whispers against Marvin’s lips.

“I love you too,” comes Marvin’s immediate response, quickly committing this moment to memory. He knows there won’t be many more and he’s going to need as many of these snippets in time to get him through the months and years to come.

The tree isn’t decorated yet, but Marvin curls against Whizzer’s chest, allowing himself to be held for a minute or twenty longer. Breathing in his scent, even now Whizzer can’t go a day without splashing on a bit of cologne. Marvin doesn’t know if it’s for his benefit—so he can memorize his lover’s scent—or simply because Whizzer needs the normalcy. Whatever the reason, he doesn’t complain.

“I bought a new decoration,” Whizzer says, breaking the companionable silence. 

Marvin picks his head up, giving Whizzer an arch look. “When did you have time or energy to go _shopping_?”

“Oh, don’t look at me like that. I told Cordelia what I wanted and she was all too happy to go scour the city for me.”

This doesn’t sound promising. Marvin’s expression turns suspicious as he brushes his fingers through Whizzer’s hair. He’s missed seeing this floppy hair thanks to the ugly grey stocking cap at the hospital. It strikes Marvin then that, of the two of them, he’s suddenly become the most fashionable. He makes a mental note to go find a Yves St Laurent or other ridiculously expensive designer robe for Whizzer to restore the balance of power.

“Go get it for me,” Whizzer says, tugging on one of Marvin’s belt loops. “It’s in the Loehmann’s bag in the bedroom. Just stay out of the other ones. I still have to wrap your gifts for the rest of Chanukkah and Christmas. So no peeking or you’ll get coal.”

“You mean Jason has to help you so they don’t look like a three-year-old did them!” Marvin shouts over his shoulder.

It doesn’t take him long to find the aforementioned bag—though he has to reign in the temptation to look inside the other ones—and brings it back to the living room. About to hand it over, Whizzer nods in the international sign for ‘go ahead.’ Marvin peers inside and promptly glares at Whizzer. 

“You asshole,” Marvin says, his words drowned out by the sound of Whizzer cackling like a deranged hyena. 

He pulls out the gaudiest looking light-up Star of David imaginable—complete with a spring at the bottom to turn it into a tree topper. Whizzer is still laughing his ass off and soon Marvin can’t help but join him. 

Marvin takes the thing out from its packaging and holds it out to Whizzer. “You bought it—”

“Technically Cordelia bought it,” Whizzer interrupts.

“—you get to put it up. It can plug into the first string of lights up top.”

Whizzer rises slowly and Marvin is by his side to guide him to the tree. It isn’t a tall one this year and, as Whizzer manages to straighten to his full height, together they get the topper in place. Stepping back to look at their handiwork, Marvin just sighs. The tree is the epitome of poor taste, some Franken-mukkah melding of two holidays that should never be joined like this. Somewhere his father is rolling in his grave. Yet, all the same, it conjures images from their first Chrismukkah together only three years ago.

_“The two holidays are never gonna overlap again like that for years.”_

_“Yes, because 1981 is so far away. Three whole years, Marvin. Do you think I’ll be dead or something by then?”_

Marvin shakes off the gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach that blooms once again. Fuck this disease and fuck Whizzer’s unintentional psychic abilities.

“Babe?”

Marvin forces a smile to his face and kisses Whizzer’s cheek. “Come on, it's almost sundown and we should light the candles. My holiday—and yours, too, Mr. Half-Jew—is still in effect after all.”

And so, not long after, the two men stand shoulder-to-shoulder beside the family menorah. Marvin takes the lead in the prayer, though he can still hear Whizzer attempting to hit the notes along beside him. It kills Marvin to hear how even his singing voice has deteriorated. 

“I want to hear you sing,” Whizzer says when Marvin finishes intoning the blessing. “Not the song Jason likes. The other one.”

Usually Marvin protests any time he has to sing aloud but not tonight. Whizzer could ask for the moon and he’d attempt to lasso it. “You mean _Hanerot Halalu_?”

“That’s the one. My mom always preferred it.”

Marvin’s voice is far from clear as he sings, but he does the best he can. 

_Hanerot halalu, anu madlikin_  
Al hanisim ve'al hanifla'ot  
Ve'al hateshu'ot, ve'al hamilchamot  
She'asita la'avoteinu   
Bayamim haheim bazman hazeh  
Al yedei kohanecha hak'doshim. 

_V'chol sh'monat yemei Chanukah_  
Hanerot halalu, hanerot halalu kodesh heim.  
Ve'ein lanu reshut lehishtameish bahem  
Ela lir'otam bilvad  
Kedei lohodot ulehalleil leshimcha hagadol  
Al nissehcha ve'al yeshuatehcha  
Ve'al nifle'otehcha. 

Whizzer’s voice fades in and out, joining in as best as he can for half the song. But by the end, it’s Marvin carrying the tune for both of them. Whizzer has his eyes closed, lips moving along with the words though no sound escapes.

As the five candles burn on this fourth night of Chanukkah, neither man says much as they stare into the dancing flames. It’s enough just to have each other here, pretending to have a future that doesn’t have an expiration date. As Marvin reaches across the table to take Whizzer’s hand, he catches sight of moisture near the corners of his lover’s eyes. He doesn’t comment on it nor does he brush the tears away before they can fall.

Instead, Marvin slides his chair closer and, with a soft sigh, tucks his head beneath Whizzer’s chin. 

After a moment, Whizzer’s arm encircles Marvin’s torso and the two watch the flames burn long past the necessary hour — until there’s little more than a bunch of white nubs left in the menorah. 

As the last flame blinks out in a puff of curling smoke, Marvin sends a prayer up. Give me one more year with him. Please.

***

**  
_December 24, 1982_  
**

Every other year, the ride from their apartment up to Rockefeller Center was a joyous occasion. Even last year, navigating the underground tunnels with Whizzer’s wheelchair seemed like an adventure. This year, Marvin feels like he’s being dragged toward his execution. 

As they trudge up the steps and emerge onto Fifth Avenue in all its decorated glory, Marvin fights the urge to vomit into the nearest trash can. Fuck everyone and their joy.

It’s not quite cold enough to snow but the weather is making its best attempt, even if it results in Marvin feeling cold and soggy rather than inspiring any true holiday spirit. Reason number 359274 why he should have stayed home and disappointed Jason. But he’s crushed the boy so many times in his young life, he couldn’t bring himself to do it yet once again.

Marvin shoves his hands into his coat pockets, dreading the first stop on their trip almost more than the impending visit to the damn tree. But standing at the bottom of the steps at St Patrick’s, Marvin is doubly aware of the Whizzer-shaped hole in their bizarre little family. There’s no half-Catholic to take Jason inside and… explain whatever it was Whizzer talked about with him. 

He’s debating between suggesting they skip St Pat’s altogether or permit Jason to wander through on his own when he feels a tug at his elbow. 

“Come on, Dad.”

Oh no. _Nope_. Abort mission.

Jason hooks his arm through Marvin’s and pulls his dad toward the entrance, causing Marvin to slip on the smooth, wet, stone steps. Inside it is, apparently. Marvin shoves his hands even deeper into his pockets to keep them steady as he passes through the heavy wooden doors. The smell of incense and melted wax hits him like a brick wall, tickling his nose with its cloyingly spicy scent. How on earth can people stand to smell this for hours on end?

It feels wrong being in here. Not because he thinks God is going to smite his homosexual Jewish ass for stepping inside a Roman Catholic cathedral—but because this _should_ be Whizzer walking beside Jason.

Not him.

They’re pushed from behind by the crowds, funneled to the left in a cattle-like herd to file around the cross-like outline of the sanctuary. At some point, Jason pulls Marvin’s hand from his pocket to hold it. He knows most thirteen-year-olds wouldn’t be caught dead holding a parent’s hand—but then again, Jason isn’t most kids, either. 

Then Jason starts to speak and Marvin’s composure threatens to crack for the thousandth time tonight.

“Whizzer used to take me all the way around. He’d tell me about the different saints and stuff he was taught when he was younger.”

“I never realized he was so…” Marvin trails off. It feels sacreligious to call Whizzer something of an atheist when standing so close to an altar. 

“Religious? I don’t think he was. Actually, I think he made up half the stories he told me,” Jason says, dropping a few coins in the box near a statue of St Michael. He lights a balsam stick from one of the memorial candles and picks out one near the top of the rack to set aflame. He smiles at Marvin’s puzzled expression. “It’s to remember those passed. Whizzer always lit one for his grandma. So.. I thought it’d be nice to light one for him.”

Marvin, wiping away a tear or seven, deposits his own money into the box and chooses a candle for himself—lighting the flame from Jason’s. 

_I miss you. More than I ever thought possible. I’m so sorry. For so many things, babe. I just hope you’ve forgiven me for all of my transgressions._ He glances down at Jason then. _And help my son through whatever is to come. The next few years won’t be easy for him._

The two are soon nudged forward by impatient tourists who only want to gain good Catholic points by visiting a church on Christmas Eve. It’s soon clear the assembled crowds want to see the focal point on Christmas Eve: the nativity. For the brief moment they’re in front of the miniature stable with carved Mary and Joseph and animals, he can almost imagine Jason and Whizzer standing in this exact spot. 

“Whizzer liked to tell the story of all that,” Jason says. “He told me there were a few different versions. Of the ones he told me, I think I liked Luke’s the best.”

Before long, they’re swallowed up by the sea of people, and soon after are deposited back outside the church. Father and son walk in silence down the steps and across the street to where a million tiny bulbs on the Rockefeller tree await them. 

“Do you want to go and skate again this year?” Marvin asks as they turn down one of the alleys. 

“I don’t think so.”

It’s even more packed here than in the cathedral; more than any previous year, Marvin notices. Just what he wanted: to have a fucking breakdown in front of five hundred people. 

Putting on a brave smile as the first strains of Christmas music reaches his ears, they step into the middle of Rockefeller Center. Like always, the tree takes his breath away, dwarfing them all as it stands above the golden statue and stretches its branches to the sky. The lights glitter and shine in the dark night like multicolored stars. 

The two edge their way down the path to the railing that surrounds the rink. Like magic, a couple moves from what has become _their spot_ as they approach. The space is wide enough for three, making Whizzer’s absence all the more apparent when no one fills in the empty hole. Marvin places his hand where Whizzer’s would have been and if he closes his eyes and tries hard enough, he can almost feel a hand beneath his own. Afraid to move it and lose the sensation—plus Jason is still holding his other one—there’s no one to wipe away the ice crystal tears as they stick to his cheeks.

“I’ve always wondered. Why him?” Jason asks, pulling Marvin away a from his grief.

“Well, he was the only one you really bonded to. I remember your reaction to some of the others I brought home.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Jason says, though he wrinkles his nose at the mention of Marvin’s other fuck-buddies. “I guess I mean… why men and not mom?”

It’s a question they’ve never once broached. Even after Jason caught them beneath the mistletoe, him half-undressed and trying to crawl inside Whizzer through his mouth, it was an off-limits discussion. Marvin always figured that since Whizzer and Jason talked about his sexuality in the hospital that night, he was safe from ever having to discuss it with his son.

This isn’t easy to answer; to do so means to admit so many prior failures. So many weaknesses. He tries to remember what Whizzer told Jason that night four years ago but it's as if gauze has been pulled over that film in his mind. It’s all hazy and muffled. No, he’s on his own for the much-overdue talk. _Fuck._

“I’m gay,” Marvin says for, perhaps the first time in his life. The admission is so freeing, that he finds himself repeating it under his breath once again. _I’m. Gay._

He draws in a deep breath. “It doesn’t mean that I didn’t love your mother. Because I did, once upon a time. I still do, but it isn’t a romantic… all-consuming love. It never was.”

“That was how you felt about Whizzer?”

Marvin nods. “You have to understand. Back when I first realized I liked men, I hated myself. Hated being different. Wrong. So I tried to hide it. Thought I’d be happier with a girl even though she never…” Christ, is it awkward being so frank with Jason, but he’s owed this. “Even though she never turned me on. Not like men did. But I tried… and one day she came to me and said she was pregnant. Her parents knew about the baby so I had to do the right thing. We married. It was… it was okay for a while. We were busy with you, I was busy with work… I stopped thinking about it.”

“Then you met Whizzer?”

Marvin draws in a deep breath, sinking into the past. “It isn’t as romantic as that. Actually I didn’t meet Whizzer for quite some time. My ‘first’ was a guy at work. He came in for training… and we…well…” He trails off.

“Had sex?” Jason supplies. 

He nods in response, though Christ, it’s uncomfortable hearing Jason say the word sex—even if he _is_ growing up. “It opened the proverbial floodgates. Showed me all the ways I was living a lie with you and Trina. But my needs were my own and were neither of your faults so… I continued to hide. Lived a double life because I thought if I was careful I could have it all. The family back home and… the men I craved.”

Jason’s quiet then and Marvin wishes he knew what his son was thinking. Wishes even harder that Whizzer were beside him for moral support. 

As if by conjuring up these memories and needing Whizzer, the music at the rink begins to play as a new set of skaters come out onto the ice. The song, unsurprisingly, is a Bing Crosby classic. It’s as if Whizzer is reaching out to him from beyond the grave. Well, he asked for moral support, and here it is. 

_Not like this; I want you here. Not your memory and a million things that remind me of you._

“How did mom find out?”

Marvin chuckles in spite of himself. “Like you did. She walked in on us in the den. Only she, ah, well—”

Jason clamps his hands over his ears. “I get it, I get it.”

Apparently it’s easier for Jason to talk about him having sex with a faceless guy as opposed to someone he actually knows and cared about.

“And that… was that. I didn’t want to leave you. Hell, I didn’t want to love you as much as I did. Do,” he quickly amends. “I never thought kids would be in the cards for me, being a gay man and all. But after you were born, I realized I wanted a son more than I thought I did. It’s some instinctual need to see my face in yours.”

The two lapse into silence while Bing Crosby finishes singing about White Christmases. The music shifts then—apparently it’s the Crosby hour—promising to be home for Christmas. Goddamnit.

_Christmas Eve will find me_  
Where the lovelight gleams  
I'll be home for Christmas  
If only in my dreams… 

Marvin sings along quietly, hating that there isn’t a second tenor to join in and add a harmony. Beside him, Jason is silent. Either he doesn’t know the song or he’s as lost in thought as Marvin seems to be. It’s hard, Marvin realizes, to see how much he’s grown as a person this last year and a half. But at the expense of losing someone he loved so deeply. Yes, he’s still a pedantic asshole when he wants to be and his sarcasm still goes up to eleven— but he also has learned not to shy away from emotions either. 

Even if he has been repressing his grief. That’s different, he tells himself.

Toxic masculinity is almost a thing of the past. Almost. 

“Did you love him?”

Jason’s voice barely carries over the din of music and people chatting around them.

“I did,” Marvin finally replies, his voice cracking.

“And did he love you?”

Marvin smiles. “He never wanted the whole ‘until death do we part’ thing.” He thinks of the small box back home in his the bedside table. “While I don’t know how he felt about me the first time we were together, when he came back? Yes. I know he did. And I also know he loved you like a son. Never ever doubt that either of us cared deeply for each other or you.”

He brushes away the few tears that roll down Jason’s cheek, kissing the top of his son’s head. 

“Dad?”

Christ, Marvin doesn’t think he can take much more of this. Even his improved persona has a limit of emotional chit-chat.

“Yeah, kiddo?”

“Are you gonna die too? Because you’re gay? Aunt Charlotte says Whizzer had the gay disease.”

Oh, he’s going to have one hell of a talk with Charlotte later. It’s not her place to start preparing Jason for the inevitable. It’s his. Marvin subconsciously pulls on his sleeve, afraid Jason’s caught sight of the purple contusion on his wrist. He found another small one on his thigh last week.

“We all have to die sometime,” is all Marvin can bring himself to say.

Because while he can lie to himself and his son about a great many things — this is the one thing he cannot. He knows his death is going to come, sooner rather than later. But to be honest about this when it’s so close to the anniversary of Whizzer’s death seems cruel to them both. So a half-truth is better than an all out lie. Jason seems to accept this so Marvin lives to die another day.

“Merry Christmas, Dad.”

“Merry Christmas, kiddo.”

And, around them, it begins to snow.

***

**  
_December 24, 1981_  
**

“Hurry up! We’re gonna miss the train!”

“Jason! Do _not_ get on that train without us!”

Christ, it’s hard navigating the subways with Whizzer in his wheelchair. They probably should have taken a taxi, but after waiting ten minutes for a cab to show up it seemed hopeless one would arrive. If there’s a threat of rain it’s as if all the taxis magically evaporate. Whizzer seemed up for the trip and was enthusiastic about the prospect of subway ride when that seemed the only option. Now after being bounced down the stairs and shoved into by angry New Yorkers, both of them have lost their Christmas spirit. 

Not that Marvin has ever managed to have much of it to begin with. 

They miss the train but manage to get on the next one—thankfully the station on the other end has an elevator to take them to the street level. Marvin angles them toward Rockefeller Center when Whizzer slams his feet on the sidewalk to stop all forward movement. 

“What are you doing?” Marvin asks. 

“I could ask you the same thing,” Whizzer replies, tilting his head back to stare up at Marvin. “You know we start at the cathedral.”

“Can you navigate the aisles with all the people?”

“I can do it!” Jason practically shoves Marvin aside to take control of the wheelchair. 

It’s unseasonably warm for December which is a blessing for them: Whizzer isn’t freezing—though he’s wearing that stupid grey-knit hat again—and there’s no slush to push the chair through. The crowds part for them more than the subway dwellers did and, thankfully, there’s a ramp to take Whizzer up to the main entrance of the church.

“If you need help, come get me.” Marvin pauses. “Are you _sure_ you don’t want me to come in?”

Jason nudges his dad out of the way. “I got it, Dad. It’ll be fine. I’ll run over your foot if you don’t move.”

Marvin leans down to steal a kiss from Whizzer, fully expecting that his ass is about to be smited for kissing another man on holy ground. But there’s no lighting strike, just a few well-placed homophobic slurs lobbed in their direction. Once Marvin would have cared, yelling at Whizzer later for turning their relationship into a three ring circus. Now he just lingers, mouth hovering over Whizzer’s.

“Marvin you do that again and we’re going to have to get a room. Since I doubt the Catholics would take too kindly to a blowjob in the sacristy.”

“WHIZZER!” Marvin and Jason’s voices ring out in a harmony of scandalized horror. 

With the sound of Whizzer’s cackling laughter ringing in his ears, Marvin watches the two go inside. He’s struck, then, of how he wishes things were different. Wondering how it would have been to know they’d have forty more Christmases together rather than one. Would there be an engagement coming? Would they try to adopt a child in spite of the whole ‘being gay is a crime’ in so many parts of the world?

What would Whizzer look like with a little baby sleeping on his chest?

It kills him, thinking of how much he’s about to lose. Not just his lover and his partner—but also his best friend. He indulges in that familiar fantasy world for so long that he doesn’t hear Jason and Whizzer approach.

“We can leave you behind, babe,” Whizzer says, arching a brow. “For someone about to have a panic attack letting me out if your sight and _didn’t_ notice us approach, I’m left to assume you’re checking out all the single guys leaving to see which young’un you can corrupt.”

Marvin playfully smacks Whizzer upside the head, taking over control of the wheelchair from Jason. 

“Just for that I’m gonna run you through every puddle I can find,” Marvin threatens. 

“He wants to soak the infirm. What a horrible man. I can’t believe you would be so cruel to the guy you’re supposed to love. Ow! What the fuck, Marvin!”

Marvin manages to find a small pothole, driving the wheelchair through it for emphasis. But he’s laughing all the while and soon Whizzer joins. Jason just looks at the two of them like they’ve gone round the bend. Perhaps they have. 

The crowds continue to give them space—though Marvin wonders if it’s less because of the wheelchair and more because people don’t want to risk brushing up against the gay couple. Don’t want to catch those homo-cooties or some shit he’s sure. Once upon a time, Whizzer would have made six crass comments and pulled Marvin in to a kiss that would make his toes curl. Now, Whizzer just leans his head against Marvin’s forearm. It’s as if the trip through the cathedral has sapped all his energy. 

He hates watching Whizzer waste away before his eyes. Even over the last few days, he’s noticed some of the light leave Whizzer’s face. He’s almost a shell of his former self. 

But when the tree comes into view, there’s a sparkle in his lover’s eyes that hasn’t been there in ages. Marvin says a private word of thanks that Whizzer lived long enough to see this one last time. For all Marvin’s protestations about this damn tradition it’s going to kill him to try and do this next year without him.

They slowly make their way to the section of railing that has become unofficially _theirs_ over the last few years. The ice is clear of people and Jason tugs on Marvin’s sleeve. 

“Dad, can I go skating?”

Marvin hesitates. He wants to say yes because he’s a selfish asshole and he doesn’t want to share Whizzer any longer. Jason already had his time in the cathedral. Marvin demands his. Yet at the same time, Marvin knows they won’t be able to leave for at least an hour if his son joins the line and he doesn’t want to tire Whizzer out further. 

“Go ahead, kiddo,” Whizzer answers instead. 

“Whizzer…”

“Marv, it’s fine. Really. I’m just sitting here and we can wait until he’s done.”

Marvin doesn’t look convinced. Okay, so now he understands how skeptical Doc Charlotte was of this whole idea when they first left the hospital earlier in the week. Doc- 1; Marvin- 0. “Are you coming, Dad?”

“Your Dad is gonna stay with me. Show me those new moves you’ve told me you’ve been practicing.”

It’s Jason’s turn to pause. “I don’t have to go. We probably should go back home.” His tone of voice doesn’t sound convinced, just disappointed.

“Tell you what,” Whizzer says, hiding a cough. “If I need to go early, we’ll give a wave. Go have fun and leave us old farts in peace.”

Jason nods, giving each of them a hug in turn before running off to join the rest of the wanna-be skaters in line. 

“You’re a good man, Whizzer,” Marvin says, kissing Whizzer’s knit-covered head. 

“Nah, I wanted to get you alone in a crowd of hundreds,” Whizzer says, kissing Marvin’s wrist. 

“Careful, you’re gonna upset some Upper West Sider’s delicate sensibilities.”

“You should sit on my lap. That would really piss ‘em off.”

Why not? With a bit of a wicked grin, Marvin carefully perches on Whizzer’s knee—after locking the chair in place—making sure he doesn’t set his full weight on him. Whizzer’s arms encircle his waist, pulling him in all the closer and forcing him to relax into the embrace. Behind him Marvin hears a few more slurs thrown at them.

Honest to God, with the looks they’re getting, one would think they were fucking in public. _Mind your own goddamn business. We aren’t hurting anyone._

On the opposite side of the rink, there’s a couple practically grinding against each other while they make out. But no one pays them any mind because they’re straight. 

The hypocrisy is staggering. 

“I never thought I’d wind up like this,” Whizzer says, breaking their comfortable silence.

“What, dying of the Gay Disease before you even hit forty?” Marvin replies. 

“No. Back with you.”

Marvin makes a noise under his breath.

“I mean it. I never thought we would see each other again after you threw me out.” 

Another noise. 

“Marvin, for fuck’s sake. I’m trying to be… sentimental or some shit here. Stop making it harder than it should be.”

“Sorry, sorry. I’ll be good.”

Whizzer opens his mouth to speak just as the music starts up again, the next set of skaters taking the ice. Marvin looks out, relieved to see Jason made it into this set of skaters. Thank god.

Above them, Marvin hears the first chords of _White Christmas_ begin to play. The very same song Whizzer came up beside him during last year. It’s poetic, somehow, that last year they found their way to each other, even if it took three more months for them to officially start a relationship once again. This year, they’re together and facing an impending breakup neither wants. 

“Marv, did you hear what I said?”

He gives Whizzer a sheepish smile. “Can’t say that I did.”

Whizzer smirks. “I didn’t say anything. I knew you were a million miles away.”

“You’re a prick.”

“God, you’re impossible.”

It's how they used to start their fights. Instead Marvin kisses Whizzer. “Go ahead, baby. I’m listening this time, I promise.”

Whizzer draws in a deep breath and promptly starts to cough. Marvin scrambles to get off his lap, afraid he’s hurting Whizzer or making it hard for him to breathe, but the other man holds him tight. 

“You are far from the easiest man to live with,” Whizzer begins once he’s caught his breath. “But I never wanted to admit that you were the easiest man to love — even if it took me forever to realize it. I have a lot of regrets in my life, but you aren’t one of them.”

“Well I regret—”

“Oh do shut up,” Whizzer interrupts. “This is my speech. Not yours.”

So Marvin shuts his mouth.

“Right.” Another cough. “While I never wanted to fall in love with someone, you’re the only man I ever wanted to spend my life with. I know it doesn’t count for much with…” Whizzer trails off and Marvin can fill in the missing word. “And I should get down on one knee but a simple question will have to suffice.”

Marvin’s breath catches in his throat and he answers before Whizzer can actually get the words out.

“I don’t care if I have only the next ten minutes with you or the next twenty years. A thousand times yes.”

***

**  
_December 25, 1982_  
**

Just like the Maccabeans’ miracle oil that burned for eight nights to cleanse the reclaimed temple—so too was how long Whizzer’s flame lasted before it winked out of existence. On the morning of the twenty-eighth, Marvin woke to labored breathing beside him. They barely had enough time to call an ambulance but, by the time they arrived at the hospital it was almost too late. 

At Marvin’s request, Whizzer was placed on life support long enough for Jason and Mendel and Trina and the lesbians to be able to say their proper goodbyes. Then everyone filed out of the room to let Marvin sit beside Whizzer as he breathed his last breath. Marvin had kissed him then, whispering I love you one last time—but Whizzer was already gone.

In Marvin’s pocket, the rings he and Whizzer has exchanged last night. Vows had been whispered in the quiet of the night, but Marvin never expected that ‘till death do we part would come so early the next morning. Their engagement-slash-private ceremony was something that would forever remain a secret to them both. 

Marvin rolls over in bed, awakened once more by the memory of Whizzer’s final moments. He rolls onto Whizzer’s side of the bed, burying his nose in the pillow. The scent is faint, but still there. 

He reaches up, blindly feeling for the square, almost empty cologne bottle on Whizzer’s bedside table. It’s the bottle he bought him last year, almost empty thanks to Marvin spraying down his side of the bed once a week. He needs to have Whizzer’s scent wrapped around him, especially late at night. He knows he can’t buy another bottle—because that speaks to a level of desperation he doesn’t want to admit to possessing—but he also doesn’t know how he’ll survive without it.

On his finger, where he’s worn it every night since Whizzer died, is the wedding band that never got use beyond that one night. 

He hears a knock at his door and quickly slips the ring off, hiding it under Whizzer’s pillow. 

“Come in!” He croaks out, flipping the pillow over before Jason can see the wet spots from his tears and makes sure the ring is still safely hidden. 

Jason pads into the room and hops onto the bed, wrapping his arms around his dad.

“Merry Christmas, Dad.”

Marvin makes a quiet noise, not trusting his voice to not crack. 

From behind his back, Jason pulls out a wrapped present. “I have something else for you… but. Well. Here.”

Marvin takes the gift and when he sees Whizzer’s handwriting on the tag, he feels ready to throw up. He looks up at Jason, blinking back tears, unsure where he got this. 

“Whizzer… he made me promise to give this to you. After…” Jason trails off. “Should I leave you alone?”

“No, stay,” Marvin says softly, wrapping his son in a hug. Of course, after the fact he’s hoping this was sentimental and not opening a gift of a new butt plug so Whizzer can have the last cosmic laugh. 

He opens the package, setting the slightly faded paper aside, and is left holding a new bottle of cologne. The dam breaks and Marvin is sobbing, holding the last gift Whizzer will ever give him.

Jason crawls into his lap, acting like he were nine again instead of thirteen. Father and son sit together and if it’s their last holiday together, Marvin doesn’t want to forget a single thing. He holds his son close, realizing that in his undressed state of just a tank and boxers, it’s likely Jason is about to discover his deadly secret.

But Jason bounces out of bed, grabbing Marvin’s hand. “Can we make challah French toast this morning?” 

Marvin kisses his forehead. “Whatever you want this morning. Just let me get dressed first.”

Jason hugs his dad and runs out of the room, leaving Marvin to get dressed. He sets the new bottle of cologne by the half-empty one, retrieving the ring from beneath the pillow and returns it to the box with Whizzer’s. He brushes his fingers over the two gold bands just as Jason shouts for help in the kitchen.

It’s a bittersweet morning, but Marvin has to admit making French toast side-by-side with his son is a fat sight better than his original plan.

However many Christmases he has left, he’ll forever be grateful to his son for this one. God may not have answered all of his prayers but at least he gave him this last Chrismukkuh wish:

A son who no longer blames him for the death of their family.

**Author's Note:**

> This is, quite possibly, one of the hardest fics I've ever written and I hope you all love it as much as I do. Comments/Kudos/Reblogs are always love. After this, we get back to our regularly scheduled updates for "Chess Ain't How Your Boyfriend Thinks" and "Fast Times at Falsettos High"!


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